


dying out on burnt rage

by lunaskeeper



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: M/M, Not Canon Compliant, POV Outsider, Period-Typical Homophobia, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 15:29:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11854458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunaskeeper/pseuds/lunaskeeper
Summary: John hadn’t seen the same, trapped look in Tommy’s eyes in his office. And all of a sudden it was bubbling out of John’s mouth, a question he'd been pondering since he’d met Stefan’s shaky gaze with his own.“Have you ever sucked cock?”





	dying out on burnt rage

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授权翻译】dying out on burnt rage](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12735114) by [Gloria_Z](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gloria_Z/pseuds/Gloria_Z)



> some missing scenes that occurred to me while watching s3 - enjoy!  
> title from the song "cold canary gaslight"  
> (this is rated M just to be safe)

After their meeting with Solomons in Tommy’s office, John and Arthur retreated back down to the kitchen.

"What’s he playing at, inviting that bastard into the house?” Arthur snarled, hunched over a half-empty glass of whiskey. Arthur’s eyes were burning with misplaced hatred and John was looking anywhere but at his brother. “Didn’t even fucking warn us. That fucker,” he spit. “Fuckers — the both of them.” Arthur took another long sip from the glass. “Ah,” he placed the glass back down on the table top. “That’s the ticket.”

John watched Arthur wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, then drag his hand down the length of his face. Arthur looked terrible: he had puffy blue-black bruises under his eyes, which made his nose look even more fucked up than usual – Arthur’d broken his nose in a accident involving a cricket bat at age fourteen – and he was pale enough that his freckles seemed to be bursting from his skin.

“Thought you were trying to stay sober,” John said.

Arthur didn’t say anything, just glared.

“Look,” John started, choosing his words carefully. “Solomons don’t mean nothing to Tommy. Means to an end, that’s all he is.”

Arthur nodded once, but continued to keep his eyes glued to the table.

“He’s still a fucker.”

“He’s probably gone by now.”

“Yeah.”

John rolled his eyes. “So,” he gestured in the direction of the stairs, “go see if Tom needs anything.”

“You fucking do it,” Arthur replied petulantly, “I’m not a bloody nursemaid.”

John rose from his seat abruptly; it scraped noisily on the floor and Arthur winced. For a brief moment, John felt a dark satisfaction at seeing Arthur curl in on himself.

“Fuck you, Arthur,” John snapped, stalking out of the kitchen. He stamped upstairs, feeling slightly childish, and came to the hallway that led to Tommy’s office.

Tommy didn’t like being interrupted, especially recently, but John figured since he’d come alone, Tommy wouldn’t tell him to fuck off. At least not immediately.

He approached the office door. It was ajar and John could see the expanse of Tommy’s wall-length bookcase through the gap. John peered around the edge of the door, Tommy’s name on the tip of his tongue.

Tommy sat in one of the chairs in front of his desk, the one Arthur had previously occupied. His back was to the door and his elbows rested on his knees. He was speaking in a low voice to Alfie Solomons who was still sat in the chair next to him, his body turned towards Tommy’s.

Neither one seemed to notice John was at the door.

Before Tommy finished what he was saying, Solomons jolted forward and for a heart-stopping moment John thought he was going to have to put himself between Solomons and his brother. But instead of bringing a knife to Tommy’s throat all Solomons did was place a kiss at the corner of Tommy’s mouth.

For a moment John was relieved. Then as his mind processed what had just occurred, John could feel a growing horror come over him and he wanted nothing more than to rip Alfie Solomons out of his fucking chair and throw him the fuck out of Tommy’s house.

But then – Tommy smiled. He still looked incredibly exhausted, but it finally dawned on John how little Tommy had smiled in the past months. Solomons raised his free hand to press his palm to the side of Tommy’s head, cradling his skull; his thumb smoothing over Tommy’s eye bone again and again. Tommy’s eyes fell closed and he swayed forward slightly, prompting Solomons to tilt his head and bring his lips to one of Tommy’s eyelids and then the other. It was a motion that seemed practiced; Solomons didn’t hesitate when he pressed his forehead against Tommy’s murmuring something that didn’t quite reach John’s ears. Tommy brought his own hand up to grip Solomons' fingers.

John’s awareness came rushing back to him all at once: he had to leave. He couldn’t let Tommy see him.

It wouldn’t have mattered either way, John told himself as he moved as quietly as he could from the door, Tommy’s eyes were still closed.

 

•    •    •

 

On the way back from Tommy’s meeting with the Russians, Arthur slept in the back while Tommy drove and John smoked in the seat next to him. It was painfully early; fog still clung to the car as Tommy steered it towards Birmingham and the sky was stained with dark blue along the western horizon.

John watched Tommy out of the corner of his eye. Tommy was still wearing his cap, which was pulled low, shading his eyes, and John could make out the glint of the razors’ edges along the seam. Tommy’s mouth was in a firm line and his jaw was clenched; he looked like he was trying to hold himself together by seizing all his muscles at once.

He looked unhinged, slightly.

John turned towards the window, thinking of the beautiful Russian women at the mansion: their perfumed necks and artfully disheveled lingerie. He thought of Tommy downstairs, meeting with the royals: hashing out a deal that John couldn’t know every part of but was sure to profit from, Tommy’d promised that much. John remembered the trapped look in Stefan’s eyes and the lump in his own throat as he’d passed Stefan the wad of notes.

John hadn’t seen the same, trapped look in Tommy’s eyes in the office. And all of a sudden it was bubbling out of John’s mouth, a question he'd been pondering since he’d met Stefan’s shaky gaze with his own.

“Have you ever sucked cock?”

Tommy tilted his head slightly to the right, but otherwise gave John no other indication that he was listening. There was an awful silence; John fiddled with his cigarette.

“Why?” Tommy finally answered.

“Just something Stefan said,” John took a drag and kept his eyes front. “Said the prince wanted him to suck his cock.”

Tommy continued to stare blankly at the road, and John backtracked quickly.

“I mean, Stefan’s doing it in the name of spying on the competition, right? It’s for gathering information, right? So it’s for us, really. He’s sucking Russian cock so we can rob ’em blind.”

John risked a glance at Tommy, who looked vaguely amused, his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel loosening.

“Are you asking me if I’ve sucked a Russian prince’s cock?” Tommy laughed, but John supposed someone’s laugher wasn’t supposed to make him sick to his stomach. “No, John, I’ve never sucked a Russian prince’s cock.” Tommy laughed again: it sounded more like an exhalation of air though his nose, an echo of Arthur’s soft snores.

John fidgeted in his seat. He took off his cap; smoothed his hair; chucked his cigarette out the window and lit a fresh one; bounced his leg up and down.

“Alright,” Tommy said, voice cold as ice. “Out with it now, John.”

“Did Grace know?” His own voice sounded unfamiliar, as if Tommy had reached down John’s esophagus and ripped the words straight from their hiding spot.

“Did Grace know what? That I’ve never sucked Russian cock?” John suspected he was being laughed at. He took a deep breath.

“That you were carrying on with Alfie Solomons behind her back.”

Even though the temperature in the car seemed to plummet ten degrees, hot sweat raced down between John’s shoulder blades and gathered under his arms. He was determined to keep his eyes off Tommy, to keep as still as possible; he didn’t breathe for several seconds.

Finally, Tommy spoke.

“Does Esme know you continued to see Lizzie Stark after your wedding? Or had you forgotten to tell her?”

John’s head snapped towards his brother. It was if suddenly the spell over the car had been broken and John found he could talk freely once again.

“Lizzie Stark?” John asked in bewilderment. “You’re going to threaten me with _Lizzie Stark_?” He snorted and shook his head. John could feel the anger vibrating through his body. “No. No, Tommy. What the fuck? What the _fuck_?” Tommy still hadn’t looked at him.

“Careful John, Arthur’s asleep,” Tommy warned.

John glanced behind his shoulder and saw that at some point Arthur had spread himself out on the backseat, one arm flung over his eyes, the other rested on his stomach. Arthur was snoring softly; he had done so ever since Tommy had broken his nose with a cricket bat.

John turned back to Tommy, who was calmly looking out at the rapidly lightening landscape, the sunshine reflected in his eyes.

“What the fuck, Tommy?” John hissed across the space.

“What the fuck what, John?”

"I _saw_ you! I _saw_ you in the office,” John admitted, keeping one eye on Arthur’s still form. “You and that piece of shit.”

John vividly recalled Tommy’s face the day Arthur’s nose had been broken. John had been seven years old and Tommy eleven. Arthur had angered Tommy in some way, in some immature, adolescent way in the schoolyard. John had watched in utter terror as Tommy had picked up the yard’s only cricket bat and swung it with such ferocity at Arthur’s face that Arthur had been thrown back several feet. John hadn’t moved, just stood there staring at the stream of blood coursing down Arthur’s mouth and chin. He’d watched the blood as it dribbled down Arthur’s neck, pooling in the fabric of his collar and unfolding like a flower across his white shirt.

When John had dared glance at Tommy’s face, he could have sworn he was looking into the face of the devil. Tommy was standing stock still, staring down at Arthur, the cricket bat still gripped in his hands. He wasn’t breathing heavily. In fact, he didn’t seem to be breathing at all; the entire schoolyard seemed to be collectively holding its breath. Tommy’s face had been devoid of emotion as he dropped the cricket bat next to Arthur’s splayed legs; his eyes: they’d been dead, and John couldn’t fathom doing anything but standing there while Tommy towered over the both of them.

Tommy’s eyes were like that now, his eyelids half closed as he watched the road in front of them. The car was still rocketing down the path and John marveled momentarily at Tommy’s ability to keep a steady hand on the wheel while he looked like at any moment he was going to start screaming and never stop.

“I’d be careful if I were you, John. Making insinuations like that.” Tommy’s calm measured voice was at complete odds with the expression on his face.

“ _‘Insinuations?’_ Jesus, Tommy.” John laughed; it sounded hysterical to his own ears. “You should’a been a lawyer, Tom. Really, that’s good.” He laughed again, but Tommy didn’t move to strike him like John thought he would. In fact, Tommy was eerily silent, holding himself very still, like he was avoiding being attacked by a bear in the woods. “I’m not insinuating anything. I _saw_ you, I fucking _saw_ you.”

“And what is it that you think you saw, John?”

John suspected that he didn’t have much longer before Tommy pulled a gun on him, put he continued anyway, the memory of Solomons’ fingers carding though Tommy’s hair fueling his rage. “You a fucking queer now, then? Is that it, Tommy?

Tommy’s left eye spasmed and John flinched involuntarily; he was pushing his luck.

“John,” Tommy’s voice was low, teeming with unarticulated violence. “I’ll say it one more time: I’d be careful saying things of that nature.”

“Why?” John scoffed. “You’ll kill me?”

“No,” Tommy’s voice was emotionless. “Alfie will.”

John’s blood ran cold. “And you’d let him?” Tommy didn’t say anything. “You’d let him kill your own brother?” Again, silence. “You’re a _fucking_ bastard.”

“You’ve got a big mouth, John,” Tommy sighed. “Everyone knows it.”

“Is that a fucking threat?” John asked, pitching his voice low.

Tommy turned his head, finally; the lazy sweep of Tommy’s eyes over his face made John inexplicably nervous.

“Yeah,” Tommy said simply. Then he looked back at the road without pause.

John sat motionless for a moment, every muscle in his body tensed. He could feel his face flushing with anger and terror simultaneously. An image of Alfie Solomons’ bloodstained smile as he sliced through John’s stomach like butter flashed though his mind, searing itself onto John’s consciousness.

John kept his mouth shut; he knew his voice would shake.

They sat in silence for an agonizingly long time. Eventually Tommy sighed, shaking his head.

“John… I shouldn’t have threatened you with Lizzie Stark. That was wrong of me.” John didn’t dare say a word, just waited for Tommy to continue. But Tommy didn’t say anything else.

John shifted in his seat. “Is that all?” He saw Tommy nod out of the corner of his eye. “So, nothing about Solomons? ‘ _Alfie_?’”

“I thought that conversation was over.”

John was tempted to just agree. If he let it go now, they could pretend John had never brought it up.

"Tommy,” John started, turning his body towards the driver’s seat. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Frankly, John, I’m not inclined to tell you anything that would steer your imagination in either direction.”

John frowned, when he saw that Tommy was smirking slightly.

“This isn’t funny!” John exclaimed.

Tommy glanced over at him, amused, and his smirk widened minutely. “I’m laughing.”

John’s anger caught in his throat before he could shout something in Tommy’s face that he couldn’t take back. It was infuriating – it was beyond infuriating, Tommy was bordering on reckless. A vivid image of Tommy’s bloody, beaten corpse rotting in an alleyway danced across John’s vision. A sick emotion crushed around John’s windpipe and he was having trouble forming words to voice his thoughts. John didn’t dare open his mouth lest he vomit on Tommy’s shoes.

Suddenly Tommy’s hand was on John’s arm, steadying him. John hadn’t noticed that his sight had become spotty until he looked up at Tommy’s face; it was obscured in part by black specks that swam in front of John’s eyes.

“– alright?

“What?” John asked. Why did he sound out of breath?

“I asked if you were alright.” Tommy eyed him critically. Then he pulled the car to the side of the road abruptly, causing John slide a little in his seat. When the car came to a full stop, Arthur snorted and rolled over to face away from John and Tommy. They both watched Arthur until he stopped moving and his quiet, consistent snores began once more.

“John,” Tommy said, sounding like caring older brother he often pretended he was, “you look ill, what’s gotten in to you?”

John couldn’t bring himself to look Tommy in the eyes. “I – ” he stopped himself, unclenched his fists, then continued. “You’re going to end up dead in a ditch somewhere.”

“I was going to end up dead in a ditch anyway.”

John let out a frustrated growl, “No, I mean – someone’s going to fucking– ”

Tommy interrupted him, “Why don’t you let me worry about that.”

John wanted to protest, wanted to yell and scream at Tommy about family loyalty and Shelby, Ltd., but instead he just nodded, swallowing his thoughts.

Tommy smiled softly, and it was the first genuine smile John had seen on Tommy’s face since the day in his office, weary though it was. “Alright then, John.”

Tommy peeled away from the side of the road and they continued towards Birmingham.

           

**Author's Note:**

> that's all folks! feel free to let me know what you thought :)


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